


Choose One Or Ten

by pensive



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Community: kink_bingo, Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensive/pseuds/pensive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cho has always cleaned up Jane's messes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choose One Or Ten

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo '09. Written in 2nd person POV.

_Saturn comes back around. Lifts you up like a child or/ Drags you down like a stone/ To consume you till you choose to let this go._ \- Tool, "The Grudge"

You know this has been a long time coming, but your hand still shakes when you grab the doorknob and twist. The first thing you notice is Jane is standing over the bed, covered in blood. It's everywhere in the room, too, as if someone grabbed a paint canister and slung out its contents like some perverse abstract art. The body is fresh, but a coppery stench punches you in the face, dizzying you for just a second.

"Jane," you say, voice level. You take very slow, deliberate steps, because Jane is breathing heavily and still clutching the seven-inch Ka-Bar knife you loaned him. "Patrick." You try for the personal name, something the military trained out of you years ago. Jane does not respond, merely stares down at the bed, shoulders heaving. You step closer, and were you not a professional CSI, you would retch.

Your earlier assessment was incorrect: it's not a body, it's a carcass. Hardly anything is left of the entity known as Red John other than mangled limbs lashed to the bedposts, a scalped head, and the flayed remains of what could be understood as the torso. The skin and other body parts--a kidney here, piece of an intestine there--litter the room in chunks, and you think maybe you can see a smiley face carved into a calf. You decide not to look too hard to see whether or not you're right.

Jane clutches the heart of Red John, blood running in slow rivulets between his clenched knuckles and onto the carpet. Drip, drip.

To keep from hurling, you mentally rattle off scientific facts about the human body: 206 bones; 640 skeletal muscles; 10 pints of blood (six of them on the walls and upholstery, and three on Jane).

You take a breath to steady yourself and place a hand on Jane's shoulder. Jane startles, then his eyes come back into focus. His expression morphs from cold and pitiless to sickened. He turns to you, looking like he might suddenly throw up, and says, "Kim..."

"I know." You don't let him finish, because it's unnecessary. "Better?"

"No." Jane becomes suddenly aware he is holding the knife and drops it--right in Red John's ribcage--with a disgusting splortch. Some blood spatters; so much for your newly cleaned suit jacket.

You manage to maintain a blank face; Jane needs someone to be strong for him right now, and the thing for that is impassivity. Enough blood had been shed already, no need to drag it out by getting a weak stomach.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Jane drops the heart--splat--and allows you to lead him to the bathroom, shuffling the entire way like he's in a daze. He reaches the edge of the bathtub and simply stands there, not making any effort to remove his blood-soaked clothing. You peel the jacket from Jane's shoulders, then turn him around gently and unbutton his vest. The two of you do not speak; Jane's eyes are glazed over, and you have nothing to say. You've undressed a man before, in the military. A fellow soldier had been suffering from hypothermia and the only way to save his life was to strip him down and get him into a warm bath. You do the same now, divesting your colleague of his clothes with the same quick precision, then help him into the tub.

You remove your own jacket and tie, then roll up your sleeves and turn on the shower head; Jane sits, hugging his knees to his chest. His hair is matted and sticky, laying in bumpy tracks across his head. After the water has wet Jane's hair enough, you turn your attention to his crimson curls. You massage over Jane's crown then behind his ears, and Jane grunts when your finger catches in a knot. It takes several minutes of scrubbing--Jesus, what did he do, bathe his hands in blood and shampoo with it?--before you are able to wash his scalp clean.

 _"I know where Red John lives, Cho," Jane said insistently, putting his hands down on Cho's desk. "It's some old house in the country, not a soul for miles. You have to teach me to use a knife."_

 _Cho wasn't surprised that Jane had Sherlocked his way to finding his family's murderer. Cho wasn't surprised that Jane asked for his help, either, as Cho had been secretly aiding him whenever he was able. Cho was surprised that Jane was so specific in asking for training in how to butcher someone._

 _"What makes you think I won't tell Lisbon." It wasn't a question._

 _Jane didn't blink. He meant business._

 _"Because Lisbon doesn't understand like you do. She's too by-the-book. There will be some legal loophole or Red John will make a deal and get off somehow, you know that's how it happens. Besides, you and I both know there's only one way to end this."_

 _Cho knew he was right; Jane was always right._

 _Some things just need to be done.  
_  
It takes far less time and effort to wash off Jane's body. His trademark suit, soaked through almost to the undershirt, has absorbed most of the blood. But you clean Jane's body as a courtesy, maybe something he can take comfort in once all the gore is sloughed off down the drain. When the sponge passes over his lower abdomen, Jane grabs your wrist and bores holes in you with his bright green eyes.

"Did I hurt you?" you ask, suddenly confused. Jane doesn't appear to be injured, but there may have been a fight between him and Red John and the bruises aren't visible yet.

Jane shakes his head, fingers still grasping you tightly.

"No, it feels good," he says, taking the sponge from your steady hand and casting it aside. He moves your hand lower, and when you jerk your hand away, Jane whispers, "Please," a desperate look in his eyes. "I haven't been-- _let_ anyone touch since--" He stops to blink away fresh tears.

You consider long enough for Jane to take no answer as a 'yes'. He sighs, closing his eyes again and leaning back. You regard him for a moment, the way Jane is wilted against the wall of the tub. The man has no strength left, physically or emotionally. You haven't seen a man look this weary since...when was the last non-classified war? Jane's certainly earned a respite, you suppose. Maybe he just needs to feel completion on both levels.

You push the sleeve of your shirt up a little further and wrap your hand around Jane's hardening length. For a while, the only sounds in the room are the soft pelting of water against skin, and Jane's stuttering gasps.

Some things just need to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a lyric by Tool. Undying gratitude to Agilebrit, who beta'd this puppy and helped me take it from fugly first-draft to its current incarnation. ♥
> 
> The amazing Swankkat has made fanart of this story! I am deeply grateful and indebted to her :)
> 
> [  
> Choose](http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/151294348/) by ~[swankkat](http://swankkat.deviantart.com/) on [deviantART](http://www.deviantart.com/)


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